


i'm just the boy inside the man

by rose_tinted_glasses



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alcohol, CANON COMPLIANT up until the whole Eddie dying thing, Confused Eddie Kaspbrak, Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, Fix-It, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, No beta: we die like men, Panic Attacks, Post-Canon Fix-It, Recreational Drug Use, Sad Gay Richie Tozier, Steve Covall is a Good Friend, Suicide Notes, it's just Stan don't worry guys, once again y'all it's sTAN don't worry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:09:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25217542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rose_tinted_glasses/pseuds/rose_tinted_glasses
Summary: To say Richie Tozier was a mess would be the understatement of the century.
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Bill Denbrough/Audra Phillips, Eddie Kaspbrak/Myra Kaspbrak, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Richie Tozier/Stanley Uris (one sided), Stanley Uris/Patricia Blum Uris (Mentioned)
Kudos: 20





	1. prologue

**Author's Note:**

> You’ve read it once, you’ve read it a thousand times- here is the first installment in my take on a post-canon fix-it fic for IT Chapter Two! Mostly canon compliant (except for Eddie’s death of course), but I promise things progress and *end* much happier. I stress the word end because I’m a sucker for slow burn and angst. 
> 
> It was intended to be a one shot built around the “scared beating heart” line, but it BEYOND spiraled out of control and I knew that there was no way I could cap this off at one chapter, even if it was 20K+ words. So, “just a quick drabble” has now turned into the beginnings of a lengthy fic surrounding grief and unhealthy coping mechanisms and (eventual) acceptance of the things which we cannot control.
> 
> So before I spoil anything, without further ado, let’s get to IT!

_**\- R + E -** _

It was just past eight o’clock in the evening when the front door to the Derry Townhouse swung open, five adults in varying states of disarray filing in one after the other. No words were spoken as they crossed the foyer and ascended the stairs; the shock had finally worn off, leaving nothing but silence to hang in the air as they all tried to process the events that took place that day- to process what they had almost lost that day. 

They reached the landing and Beverly was the first to head towards her room, Ben following hot on her heels and the explanation of needing a shower tumbling from her lips without so much as even a glance back. The others murmured their agreement and headed towards their own rooms. 

All but one. 

None of the other Losers noticed that Richie had not followed them up the stairs. That was alright by him, he thought as he all but dragged himself through the doorway to the lounge. He was in a complete and utter haze and his feet felt as if they were moving of their own accord. They could 'process their feelings' if that’s what they wanted to do. He didn’t want to process shit, he wanted to forget. And if there was anything he was good at, it was repressing things. 

A nearly full bottle of whiskey sat uncapped on the lounge’s bar like a beacon, a siren’s song he couldn’t resist, and he didn’t think twice before grabbing one of the dusty glasses and pouring himself a more than generous serving. He lifted the glass outwards in a half-assed manner, the amber liquid sloshing dangerously as he did so. 

“Cheers.” 

The alcohol burned, but Richie didn’t so much as shudder as he drained half the glass in one go. He didn’t know what exactly he was toasting to- they had defeated that goddamned clown, but at what cost? 

First they lost Stan. Stan the man. Stanley _fucking_ Uris. How could he ever forget about him in the first place? He was one of Richie’s first friends, their mothers friends before they were even born. He was Richie’s first real crush, though fleeting, which set him on a spiraling path of self-realization that would last some thirty odd years. 

Now that Pennywise was dead, he could remember more from his life in Derry after that summer. Richie took another sip of the whiskey as he reflected on the years after, before he had packed up and headed to college with promises to keep in touch, promises that would never be fulfilled. 

Stan was the only person Richie had ever come out to, even to this day. He remembered being sixteen and a little bit high and still reeling from the news that Sylvia Porter had asked Eddie to the Sadie Hawkins dance (and that he had said yes). 

_“Fucking Sylvia, you know I heard that she gave Brock Johnson a hummer on the bus in middle school. What’s Eds doing hanging out with a skank like that anyways?”_

_A much younger Richie took a deep pull off of the joint he had balanced between his fingers before blindly holding it out in Stan’s general direction. He held the smoke in his lungs as his now empty hand dropped back down to his stomach. He was chasing a high that was just out of his reach, his tolerance up a considerable amount from the first time he had smoked at 14. He exhaled deeply through his nose once his lungs started to protest, just as Stan started speaking. “Why does it bother you so much? Normally people would be excited that their best friend might get some action.”_

_Richie gasped, sitting up from where he lay on the ground and snapping his hand up to his chest in faux-horror. “Why Stanley, how dare you imply that I don’t love you all equally?” The southern twang he had adopted rang through the stale air of the clubhouse, which hadn’t heard much but a few whispers and slightly stoned giggles since they had started their smoke session. That’s it, Rich. Just deflect all of your issues with humor. After all, if you can tell a joke then everything must be fine. Right? Apparently Stan didn’t agree._

_Stan took a quick hit of his own before flicking the nearly finished joint into an ashtray. “You do, though. Love him more than us. And that’s okay.”_

_Oh._

_Stan continued, seeming to take Richie’s silence as agreement. “You know you can tell me anything, right Rich?”_

And so he had. He had taken one look over at Stan’s face, his kind and accepting eyes searching for something within Richie’s, and the words had bubbled over before he even knew what he was saying. He had never even said this out loud when he was alone before, let alone told another person. 

_“You know how Bowers used to push me around and call me a faggot?”_

_Stan hummed in acknowledgment, his eyes never leaving Richie’s own._

_“He was right.”_

Stan hadn’t interrupted once as Richie spilled his guts. He had taken it all in stride (because _of course_ he had already known, Stan knew _everything_ ) and had held Richie when the reality of his confession had settled in and he had broken down. 

One of the most understanding, accepting people Richie had ever met in his life, and he had been reduced to nothing but a statistic. Another sob story of a successful man who crumpled under the pressure. At least, that was what everyone else would believe. The Losers knew better, they knew the real reason why Stan would never again walk this earth. Because of that goddamned fucking clown, because of It, they’d never get to see him all grown up, smiling and full of life and so incredibly Stan. He’d never even get to know that they had killed the very thing he was so afraid of. 

Patty had texted Beverly the details for his funeral while they were on the way to the quarry, and had extended an invitation to any of his other childhood friends who might want to attend. How does someone do that, though? How does one attend a funeral for someone they haven’t seen in nearly 30 years? Richie knew he couldn’t do that. He couldn’t replace the memories of the boy he once knew with the man in a casket. 

And then there was Eddie. Fierce, brave, idiotic Eddie who had damn near gotten himself killed trying to be a fucking superhero and save Richie from the Deadlights. When he was trapped in them, right before Eddie had saved him, he saw his death. The claw, that had actually only taken a chunk out of his arm, had pierced straight through his chest in the vision, splattering Richie in his blood. He had held him on that cavern floor as he died, had screamed his name at the top of his lungs as they left his lifeless body behind. Only to wake up on that same cavern floor with the Losers standing over him, Eddie included. His jacket was gone, the sleeve seeming to have been ripped off to tie around the wound on his arm. He was injured, but alive. 

And now he was in a hospital bed recovering from surgery, as the wound was a lot more serious in the light of day once the adrenaline wore off. They had dropped him off before heading down to the quarry, with promises to return the following morning to visit. Richie knew he wouldn’t be visiting though. After all, Eddie’s _lovely_ wife was on a plane headed for Maine at that very moment. He could live the rest of his life without meeting Sonia Jr., thank you very much. 

_“A clown with a scared beating heart.”_

Richie let out a humorless chuckle against the rim of his glass as the phrase passed through his mind. He tipped said glass skyward, downing the rest of the whiskey in one fluid motion before grabbing the tumbler and refilling it. Mike had been talking about Pennywise when he said that, but he couldn’t help but relate. He could make all of the jokes he wanted, but he knew it was just fear talking. 

It was one thing to hear that Eddie had a wife. To hear that he had fallen in love with this woman he had met in New York and had gotten married, had started a life with this woman, maybe even wanted to have _children_ with this woman. These were facts he could easily push to the back of his mind when they were all laughing over dinner or trekking through the grey water towards certain death. They were non-issues, because Richie and Eddie had one thing she would never understand: Derry. 

But now she was coming here, to be with _him,_ and just the thought of her fretting over him in a hospital room less than 5 miles from the townhouse was enough to leave a sick feeling in Richie’s gut. Dammit, wasn’t the whole point of this to not think about his feelings? 

And so he finished his drink. And another. By the time the last drops of the seventh glass were sliding down his throat, his body was slumped haphazardly across the armchair he had at some point taken up residence in. The whiskey was strong, clouding his head like a blanket over his thoughts. For the first time since they had entered the well house on Neibolt street, Richie felt free. 

“Rich? Are you okay?”

Bev. She was crouched down in front of the chair, seeming to appear out of thin air. One of her hands braced on his thigh while the other stroked the side of his face. Why couldn’t he feel that before? He was hyper aware of the sensation now, her fingers feeling like ice where they met his own skin. He tried to tell her that yes, he was more than fine, but the words came out so slurred and disjointed that it barely resembled English.

Sadness clouded Beverly’s eyes as she took in the state her friend had gotten himself into. “Oh, honey… wait here a minute, okay? I’ll be right back.” The ice was gone, and so was she in a swirl of pinks and blues that a more sober Richie would recognize as a nightgown. Instead he let himself be captivated by her aura long after she had left the room. Time is funny when you’re inebriated, so even though it felt like hours to Richie before she came traipsing back down the stairs with Ben, it was probably only a minute or so.

Richie wasn’t entirely sure how Ben had gotten him upstairs that night. One second he was in the chair. He blinked. Now he was in his room, in the bed he had yet to sleep in since he had arrived in Derry. Ben stood in the doorway as Bev set a glass of water and some aspirin on the nightstand. She turned to him, pulling his comforter up a bit higher and pushing the hair back off of his face. Lips pressed to his forehead before she stood upright and gave him one last smile. He blinked again and they were gone. 

Richie reached down shakily, fishing in his pockets for his cell phone. He had one last thing to do before letting himself fall asleep. Knowing he was far too gone to even try operating it properly, he prompted Siri to call Steve. He answered on the fifth ring.

_“After the disappearing act you pulled on me the other day, you had better have a damn good reason for calling me at two in the morning Richie.”_

Richie forced himself to focus on his words, knowing it wouldn’t do him any good for his manager to know exactly how drunk he was. “Hey man, I need you to book me a flight back home. Tomorrow, as early as possible.” 

Steve sighed, the sound unnaturally tinny through the phone speaker. _“You’re lucky you’re such a profitable client. I swear to god Richie, you pull some shit like this again and I’m dropping you.”_

“Sorry dad.” Richie mumbled sarcastically. “So is that a yes?” 

Keyboard clicks could be heard throughout the room for a solid thirty seconds before Steve spoke again. _“8:30am, same airport you flew out of. I’ll email your ticket information over. You better come straight to my office the second you get back.”_

The call ended and Richie dropped his phone onto the nightstand after asking Siri to set an alarm. As much as him and Steve butted heads, he never let him down when he needed him the most. 

Richie settled back against the pillows and let his eyes slide shut, suddenly exhausted. A small smile pulled up at his lips as he drifted off into a dreamless sleep for the first time in 27 years.

He was getting the hell out of dodge.


	2. chapter one

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s chapter one, as promised! 
> 
> I know I said this would be up Wednesday and then I went and posted it at like 2am on Thursday instead- I’m so sorry to anyone who may or may not have been waiting! I spent a bit of extra time editing it that I didn’t intend to. 
> 
> I personally don’t like reading WIP fics, so I would like to give a huge thank you to everyone who showed some love on the prologue chapter, including a special shoutout to slinkhard for being the first person to bookmark it. You rock! 
> 
> Let’s just go ahead and jump on in- Hope y’all enjoy!

_**-R + E-** _

A week had passed since the morning when Richie crept out of bed at the crack of dawn and wished Derry one last “fuck you”. Seven whole days since he had boarded that plane and watched his past fade into nothingness from a window seat on a Southwest flight. 

Other than the near-scalding reprimand he had gotten from Steve upon his arrival back home, nothing of particular interest had occurred. Things were normal, they were almost even  _ good,  _ and Richie was doing everything he could to settle back into reality. He played catch up on some social media per Steve’s request (“Damage control, Richie! You froze up on stage and then missed two shows back to back. You need to fix this before it gets out of hand!”) and spent time writing some new material, per his own request. 

During the meeting with Steve, when he had finally stopped yelling long enough to let Richie get a word in, his client had dropped quite the bombshell on him.

_ “You want to do  _ what _? Please tell me I’m hearing you wrong Richie, because it sounded like you just said you want to fire Clark.”  _

Clark Green was his writer, the ghost behind all of the low grade dick jokes he made on stage nowadays. 

_ “Hear me out, man. I’m not saying I won’t script my shows or run the material by you first. I’m just tired of getting up on a stage every other night and being this character. I just want to be me for once- I want to perform my own material.”  _

And for all of his talk of letting Richie go, there’s no way he’d ever let Trashmouth out of his grasp. So he had complied, even though the vein on his forehead seemed to double in size as he gritted out his agreeance and made the necessary calls. 

This all led to where Richie was now, perched on a barstool in his kitchen while he typed sporadically on his laptop. The only sounds to be heard throughout the empty house were the taps of his keyboard and the rain that was currently beating against the windows. He had managed to write out the entirety of a new act in the past week, and was now going back through and editing the draft he had compiled. It was solid, funnier than anything he’d performed in  _ years _ , and it wasn’t even done yet. 

As he corrected a line he had typed out improperly, he lifted the beer he had been nursing for the past half hour up to his lips, quickly realizing that it was empty. He groaned dramatically before hopping up to toss the bottle into the trash, alongside the six other empties he had procured today alone. 

On his way back to his seat he contemplated grabbing another, but the chime of his cell phone drew his thoughts away from the fridge and back towards the island. 

**Incoming Call**

**Mikey**

Richie smiled as he answered the call, pressing the speaker button before hopping back up onto the barstool. “Yello?”

Even though he couldn’t see his face, the answering smile Mike seemed to have shined through as he spoke.  _ “Hey, Richie! How've you been? Settling back in alright out there?” _

“Pretty good, honestly.” Yeah, tell that to the pile of empties taking up half your garbage can. “Been working a lot to make up for lost time, but I can always spare a minute for my favorite Loser. What’s up?”

Mike laughed freely, in a way that only he seemed capable of.  _ “Yeah, yeah. I’ll take it where I can get it. I don’t need much of your time- I was genuinely calling to check in with you, but I also had a question. I was actually wondering if you had checked your mail yet today?”  _

Richie had in fact not checked his mail yet today. Or at all since he had arrived back from Derry- all of his bills were set up paperless, and anything work related or the rare piece of fan mail went through Steve’s office. Mike continued speaking, not waiting for an answer.

_ “You should be receiving a letter- we all got one. I already spoke to Bill and Eddie, they got theirs today.”  _ Richie sighed, glancing out the window begrudgingly at the pelting rain that, of course, was currently flooding his yard. “Hold up, give me like five minutes.”

Mike tutted, and Richie was sure if he could see him that he would be shaking his head.  _ “Don’t rush for my sake, it’ll be there regardless of when you check it. I just wanted to give you a heads up about it. And to let you know that if you need to talk to someone, after you  _ do _ get a chance to read it, that I’m only a phone call away.”  _

Two goodbyes and one particularly gushy declaration of love later (“Doesn’t everybody?” Richie had scoffed in response to the warm  _ “Love you, Rich”  _ from Mike), they ended the call. Richie didn’t go back to his writing, or even to the fridge; instead, he stared at the lockscreen on his phone as he pondered the meaning behind the conversation that had just transpired.

_ Clearly _ this letter held some amount of importance, if he had felt the need to call not only him, but also Bill and Eddie about it. If it was a letter they were all receiving, it had to be from one of the other Losers- who the hell else even knew they existed as a unit? Maybe Bev and Ben had decided to elope and send them a postcard from whatever island they had run away to honeymoon on. But then, what did he mean by “if you need to talk”? It all felt extremely foreboding, but creepy phone calls that left a sick feeling in the pit of Richie’s stomach seemed to be Mike’s specialty at this point. 

Deciding that there was nothing to lose, Richie headed to the foyer, grabbing a hoodie off the back of the couch and tugging it over his head on the way. Slipping on the sneakers next to the front door (that were meant to be for running,  _ he was supposed to be running _ , but the sneakers were in pristine condition despite being bought months prior), he took a moment to steel himself against the torrential downpour. Taking a deep breath and pulling up his hood, he stepped out into the storm.

He walked quickly and with purpose down the driveway, fighting against both the rain and his gut’s instinct that he should heed any call from Mike Hanlon with caution. He would never hurt any of his friends intentionally, however his last call had led them all on quite a ‘journey’. Richie shook his head, stopping in front of his mailbox with a sigh. Pennywise was dead, It was over. Nothing could be worse than that last call. 

Wasting no more time, Richie quickly snatched the stack of mail out of the box. He started to push his way back up the steep driveway, with the intent to curl up in front of the fireplace and sift through it, when a baby blue envelope on top caught his attention. It was addressed to Richard Tozier, and the return address made him stop in his tracks as his eyes processed the words written before them.

**Patrcia Blum Uris**

**1771 Maple Walk Cir**

**Atlanta, GA 30315**

That oh so familiar feeling was back, now creeping from his stomach into his chest. What the fuck was Patty Uris doing, sending him mail? Richie dropped the magazines and sales papers stacked beneath the envelope onto the soaked pavement, before furiously tearing the envelope open and tugging out a folded sheet of paper. 

His heart thrummed a furious rhythm behind his ribs, a prison to the organ that so clearly wanted nothing more than to burst out of his chest. Shaking hands unfolded the now damp sheet. He looked skyward for a brief moment before allowing himself to glance down at the letter. 

In the blink of an eye Richie was no longer standing in his driveway; he felt a million miles away, when in reality it was closer to thirty years. 

_ “How do you do that?”  _

_ A fourteen year old Stan glanced up at Richie from where he sat at the desk in his bedroom, placing his pencil down. “Do what?” Richie jumped up from Stan’s bed and, stepping over Bill where he lay on the floor reading, walked up to the desk and gestured broadly to the essay he had been writing. “Cursive! You make it look so easy. I can barely write at all, let alone like that _ .”

_ Bill snorted, piping up over the pages of the Batman comic in his grasp. “Y-yeah, Miss Johnson is constantly b-bitching at him, ‘cause she can’t read his work to grade it. _ ”  _ Richie grabbed a textbook from Stan’s desk and chucked it at Bill, missing entirely.  _

_ A beat of silence passed. “Well,” Stan started, seeming to weigh something over in his mind before continuing. “If you promise not to be annoying, I can try to teach you. If you want, that is.”  _

_ Excitement bubbled up within Richie and spilled over as he pulled up a stool and plopped down next to Stan at the too small desk. He watched as the other boy continued writing his essay, only this time it was accompanied by a narrative detailing the different shapes and attachments that the letters took on.  _

He was sucked out of the memory as his knees slapped into the pavement, the palms of his hands following soon after with the paper still clutched tightly in his left one. The feeling was back, and this time it showed no mercy as it fled out of his stomach and past his chest, up through his throat until he was wrenching his lips open to allow it to escape. Stomach acid and cheap beer spewed pathetically onto the ground below him, washing away with the rain that was running down his driveway. Once he was (thankfully) done, he managed to pull himself into a sitting position, clutching the letter to his chest and avoiding glancing at it again quite yet. 

Patty only mailed the letter. He’d know that handwriting anywhere- after all, it was the same person who tried to teach him to mimic it years before. Richie called on some of that Loser brand bravery and straightened the soaked paper out, reading the slightly smudged writing.

_ My dear friend,  _

Richie didn’t notice that he was crying until a shuddering sob wrenched itself from his chest, the actual tears mixed in with the rain tracking down his cheeks. He continued on, wiping the opposite hand against his face in vain. 

_ I know what this must seem like, but you must know that this is not a suicide note.  _ (Richie fought back another sob at the word suicide, forcing himself to keep reading)  _ You are probably wondering why I did what I did, and you have every right to an explanation. I hope that the one I have reaches you in good health. To be frank, and lay my cards out truthfully- I knew that I was too scared to go back. I knew that there was no way I would be able to stand up and face that monster, with or without you guys. I also knew that if we weren’t all together, if all of us were alive yet weren’t united, I knew it would bring every last one of you down with me. So I made the only logical move- I took myself off of the board.  _

_ Did it work? I suppose that if you’re reading this, you know the answer.  _

_ I lived my whole life afraid. Afraid of what we saw, afraid of what we did. Afraid of what would come next, afraid of what I might leave behind- what I did leave behind. If I can instill anything upon you in this letter, let it be this: Don’t. Don’t be afraid of the obstacles life will throw your way or the change that will inevitably come along with it.  _

_ Richie, my dearest friend, in the past hour since I have recalled your existence, my heart has ached fiercely. I sit here and I wonder if you ever got past that fear, if you are living the life you are meant to live. The one you deserve to. Regardless, I have yet another small piece of advice I urge you to follow: Be who you want to be. Be proud, and if you find someone worth holding onto, never let them go. Follow your own path, wherever that takes you. _

_ Think of this letter not as a suicide note, but as a promise. A promise that I am asking you to make to me, to the others. Think of it as an oath. You see, the thing about being a loser is that you don’t have anything to lose.  _

_ So be true. Be brave. Stand. Believe. And please, whatever you do, don’t forget. We’re losers and we always will be.  _

_ See you in another life,  _

_ Stanley Uris _

It seemed like both an eternity and the briefest second before he was reaching the end of the letter. He read it once, twice, and by the fifth time his shaking hands had stilled, the boiling feeling in his gut had calmed, and nothing remained but a faint numbness throughout his entire body. The rain had dulled down to the lightest drizzle and, realizing that the lack of feeling might be due to hypothermia or some shit, he pulled himself off of the driveway and slowly made his way back up to the house, leaving the rest of the mail he had discarded in the yard. That was tomorrow’s problem. 

The time from when he entered the house to now was a bit of a blur. That seemed to be happening to Richie a lot lately; not actual missing time, just periods that seemed to be happening so quickly yet simultaneously in slow motion. Time that he could account for yet couldn’t quite discern the events from it. 

He sat here now, leaned up against the wall in his bed. He picked at a loose thread on the comforter as he clutched his phone in his once again shaking hand. Mike hadn’t been wrong- there’s no way he could handle the contents of that letter without talking to somebody about it. He had already tried talking to the bottle, six more to be exact, and they just sat on his bedside table practically mocking him. 

_ You keep telling all of your friends how okay you’re doing, but are you really? Richie Tozier: Closeted homosexual, shitty comedian, and now he adds blooming alcoholic to his repertoire of shame. If only they could see you now, if only  _ he  _ could see you right this very moment. You can’t even hold your phone, you're so fucked up. But hey, at least it isn’t the hard stuff, right? Because obviously as long as it’s just a few beers at the end of the day, you’re fine-  _

Richie closed his eyes. Obviously he knew the empty bottles weren’t talking to him- he wasn’t crazy, contrary to popular belief. This was his own internal shitstorm finding any crack that it could to leak out and ruin his life. 

He knew what he had to do. Opening his eyes once more, he flicked through his contacts and found the one he was looking for. Pressing the call button, he held the phone to his ear and waited. He knew he wouldn’t say a word about the drinking (just because he was self-aware didn’t mean he had the self-restraint), but he also knew that sitting on this letter by himself would do nothing but push him deeper into this chaotic abyss he had created. There was a click on the other line. 

_ “Hello?”  _

Richie released a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding. 

“Hey Eds.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please remember to comment or leave kudos if you enjoyed it, and look out for chapter two by the end of this week. Thank you all for reading this far!


	3. chapter two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richie makes a phone call, has a meeting, and puts a foot in the right direction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These first few chapters might seem short and filler-esque, but I promise that every detail is important. So enjoy some (short) Reddie interactions, and some more of everyone's favorite manager.

**_-R+E-_ **

Richie was awoken the next morning by a text alert from Steve, reminding him that he had an interview that afternoon. He dismissed the notification with a semi-uncoordinated swipe on the cracked screen before rolling over and burying his face into the pillows with a groan, trying but failing to block out the sun peaking through his curtains. 

The hangover currently splitting his skull did nothing but remind him of the way last night’s conversation had panned out, and the bottle of  _ something _ he’d nabbed from downstairs afterwards (because of course Eddie Kaspbrak would be the one to make him break, of course he’d be the reason that he picked up something stronger than a Bud Light after a week of powering through the cravings). __

It hadn’t started off badly by any means. In fact, it was reminiscent of their childhood, or even the way they had been the week before. 

_ “Hey Eds.” Richie had managed to say, after spacing out for a moment at the sound of his voice. He wasn’t sure why, but he hadn’t actually expected the other man to pick up his call.  _

_ One wouldn’t even assume that Eddie had nearly died last week with the way he fired back, “Really, fuckwad? How many times do I have to tell you not to call me that?” He huffed, and Richie just knew that his eyebrows were furrowed together in the way they always had when it came to him. “You finally reach out to one of us after skipping town and the first thing you do is give me hell, why am I not even surprised.” It was a statement, or at best a rhetorical question, but Richie still felt the need to explain himself. _

_ “I didn’t mean to not keep in touch, I just had so much shit on my plate once I got back. I really fucked up when I left to come to Derry, ya know? I had to straighten it all out or my manager was probably going to strangle me, which I’m all for under the right circumstances-”  _

_ Eddie sighed and cut him off before he could get too worked up. “That was probably out of line. I get it… In fifteen years at the firm I’ve never taken vacation time, let alone sick days, so it was hard to explain to my boss why I just vanished like I did and how I ended up in the hospital. I’m sure it was worse for you, being in such a public profession.” Richie laughed, though it lacked any humor. “Yeah, Steve was pretty pissed. Apparently there’s theories and shit going around online that I’m on drugs or having some kind of mental breakdown. It’s really great for my image… Speaking of mental breakdowns though, I uh, got this letter-”  _

_ For the second time in the past three minutes, Richie was cut off mid sentence. Only this time it was by a woman’s voice speaking in a Jersey drawl, a nasal sound which grated on his eardrums. “Eddie-Bear! Why are you sitting outside so late at night, sweetums? You should be in bed! You know what your doctor said, you can’t overwhelm yourself in your condition.”  _

_ Richie expected him to explain that he was talking to a friend, or even make up some excuse, but it was like a switch had been shifted and suddenly he was talking to a complete stranger. “I’ve got to go. Was there something specific you needed?” Eddie’s voice sounded impersonal, professional, and not at all like it ever had when talking to Richie before.  _

_ That broiling feeling in his stomach was back, edging along something like anger and fear and jealousy all in one. Instead of answering the question he had been asked, he opted for a simple “Night, Eds.” before ending the call.  _

_ He stared at the screen for one, two, three beats before it was sailing across the room, hitting his dresser with a crack before landing on the rug. Why had he thought calling him would help? In a perfect world, Eddie would be the solution to all of his problems. But in this world, the real world, everything about him was the problem. Well, one of the problems, but a pretty damn significant one.  _

_ Richie was in love with Eddie. He had long gotten past the days where he couldn’t even think the words, lest someone be able to read minds and uncover his dirty little secret. Eddie, a straight male who had a wife and didn’t even remember he had existed until last week. Meanwhile, Richie could never truly forget something that ran so deeply within him. Even when he couldn’t recall a name or a face for all those years, something in him knew that his heart already belonged to somebody that he could never have. He’d always just assumed that it was internalized homophobia telling him he could never be with a man, not that there was an actual man out there who had a hold on him. So while he spent his years straying away from any kind affection in fear of being outed (other than one or two publicity fueled relationships with women that Steve had forced him into), Eddie was making a life for himself.  _

Richie rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling as he tried to recall how the night had gone after he had tossed his phone. He remembered picking it up and slicing his finger on the cracked screen, going downstairs for a bandaid and stumbling back up with a bottle of  _ something _ (definitely not beer if he was going off the current taste in his mouth), and after that it was a blank. Not a blur like normal, but an entire empty chunk of time between falling back into bed and waking up that morning. He ran a hand through his hair and closed his eyes, heaving a sigh of resignation.

“Fuck.” 

**_-R+E-_ **

“Steve, I think I’m an alcoholic.” 

A few moments passed in silence as the two men in the room sat on opposite sides of the desk and stared at one another. Steve resituated his hands a few times, shifting his gaze awkwardly around the room before speaking. “Is this what last week was about? Were you drunk at that show?” 

Richie scoffed, “You know I’d never go out there fucked up Steve. That’s the whole reason I had you cancel that interview today- I’m honestly still a little drunk from last night.” He bit his lip at the admission. He needed to stick to his story; not the truth, but as close as he could give without getting locked up in a psych ward. 

“You remember that phone call I got, right before the show?” Steve hummed in agreeance, and he took that as a sign to continue. “It was an old friend of mine, Mike Hanlon. I hadn’t seen him in years… He called to tell me that a friend of ours had died- he, uh, committed suicide. I was just so shaken up that when I got out on stage I completely freaked and forgot the set.”

  
Steve nodded, which was a good sign in Richie’s eyes. He wasn’t yelling and he wasn’t threatening to fire him (yet). He definitely had a soft spot for his longest client, but his temper usually overpowered that fact. “That’s completely understandable, Rich. I just wish you’d told me what was going on before running off and disappearing like you did. So what, you started drinking because this old friend of yours offed himself?” Richie visibly flinched at his words. “Sorry, that was a bit insensitive. I’m just trying to understand everything that happened so I can help you Richie. I can’t help if I don’t know what’s going on in your head.” He knew his manager was right, but it was easier to admit you needed help than to actually open up about it.

Richie distracted himself by playing with a loose thread on his jeans so he wouldn’t have to meet his manager’s eyes. “Something like that. Mike’s call was why I left like I did. And when I was out there with all of them, we got into a pretty dangerous, er- accident, and another one of my friends almost died trying to keep me from getting hurt. He got messed up pretty bad; he’s fine now, but it still was a lot of guilt to handle with everything else going on. And just being back in my hometown brought up so much shit that I had repressed after I moved away…” He finally looked up to meet Steve’s eyes. “I’m missing time, man. It’s like I started drinking the night he almost died and haven’t fully had a sober moment since then. It was mostly just beer and stuff, but last night…” 

Steve leaned forward, fixing him with a concerned stare. “What happened last night?” Something about the genuine look of empathy in Steve’s eyes set him off, and in an instant he was no longer seated, instead pacing the small office and ranting so fast he could hardly breathe. 

“He left me a fucking note, Steve. His wife mailed me a fucking  _ suicide note _ that he had written for me! And knowing  _ why _ he did it just makes it so much worse because it’s basically our fault for not being there for him. He wouldn’t have been so scared if we had been there for him. And  _ then _ I tried to call Eddie and talk to him about it and he couldn’t bother to tell his bitch of a wife to fuck off so he could be there for me, which is _ totally _ fucked up right? The second she said jump, he jumped. So I hung up on him and threw my phone like a fucking psycopath, and ended up drinking an entire bottle of Makers by myself, in my bed, like a goddamned loser.” 

By the end of his speech he was panting, shaking and damn near hyperventilating. He had given up years ago on looking put together for Steve of all people. He had seen him at lower mental lows than even this, which was why Richie had come to him in the first place. It was his job to help him handle anything that could negatively impact his image, but he was also admittedly the closest friend Richie thought he had until a week ago. 

Almost as if he could read his thoughts, Steve strode across the room and pulled Richie into one of his rare hugs. “We’ll figure this out together, Rich. It doesn’t need to be rehab, or anything else that could get out to the public. Therapy, AA, whatever you want to try. There’s a few low profile groups for celebrities we could look into, and you’ll still be able to do shows. We can just book you some smaller gigs until things get back on track, okay?” 

Richie nodded against his shoulder, bringing his arms up to return the hug. “Yeah, therapy sounds like a good idea. Probably should have sucked it up and started that years ago. A meeting or two might not hurt either… and Steve?” Steve pulled away from the hug, giving him his full attention. “While I’m already throwing everything out on the table, I should probably tell you that I’m gay.”

The words came out without a second thought, and Richie didn’t regret it for a second. Maybe he wasn’t ready to tell the whole world yet, or even the Losers, but he felt that he owed a shred of honesty to the (only) person who had been there for him since he dropped out of college to pursue comedy, who had signed him as a bright eyed twenty year old performing stand up in dive bars. He knew Steve wasn’t homophobic, and honestly he didn’t know why he hadn’t told him before now. 

Steve stared at him in shock for about ten awkward seconds before sighing, eyes rolling skyward as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “Of course you are. How the fuck did I not piece that together before now?” He was back in manager mode, slipping into his chair once more as he logged onto the computer to set up an appointment for Richie. “I hope you’re not planning on some big public coming out or anything- we still have a lot of damage control to do over this whole situation, and I’d hate for anyone to think you were using it as a copout…” 

As Richie lowered his still shaking body back into his chair, he couldn’t help but shoot a weak smile at the man across from him. He might not be able to admit to the others that he was having a rough go of it, at least not yet, but he knew that Steve would do everything in his power to try and fix what could be fixed. Hell, maybe he’d never even need to tell the Losers about any of this. He could do the meetings, talk to the shrink, and get a handle on things. Something solidified within him, and he cast his eyes up as an oath of his own went through his mind. 

  
‘ _ I promise, Stanny… By the next time I see them, I’ll be better.’  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so total headcanon of mine: Steve is actually a pretty damn cool guy, and almost like a brother to Richie. I feel like most people either write him as an asshole (a valid take) or just don't write him at all, which is unrealistic to me as Richie is legit famous and would constantly be in touch with his manager. Once we get into the Reddie goodness he won't be in it as much, but I felt it important to establish their closeness early on. 
> 
> Thanks for reading, and PLEASE leave me a comment if you have any thoughts on this so far!


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